by Summer Lane
I don’t return the gesture.
“Lieutenant True,” Colonel Rivera says. “Your report?”
He nods, nearly collapsing on the floor. Someone helps him into a chair. He is clearly exhausted and needs medical help. But we need this information now.
“I saw…them,” he pants, chest heaving. “They were…loading trucks…with prisoners of war.”
“Did you see Chris?” I ask, stepping closer. “Uriah? Did you see him?”
“It was hard to see anything in this weather,” Uriah replies.
“Where were they? Where were you?”
“I was unconscious in the mud,” he says, unflinching. My unspoken accusation hangs heavy in the air: You left Max to die. You left all of us to die.
“I was dragging my butt back to camp when I saw the trucks,” he continues, never taking his eyes from mine. “They were taking prisoners. Mostly officers. I didn’t see Chris, but I would assume that if he was alive, he would be with them.”
I take a deep, steadying breath.
So. The possibility remains: Chris could be alive.
“Are you sure?” Manny presses.
Uriah flicks his darkest, most menacing glare at him.
“I’m positive.”
I glance back at Colonel Rivera.
“We have to go after them,” I say. “I’ll take a platoon up the interstate and we’ll stop the trucks.”
“We’re not stopping anything,” Colonel Rivera snaps. “Our forces are in bad shape. We need to regroup and reorganize.”
“Chris Young has been taken captive!” I reply firmly. “We don’t have time to reorganize. We need to act now.”
“I will not compromise any more lives for the life of one Commander,” Rivera answers, a sour expression on his face. “Regardless of whether or not it’s Young or any other officer.”
“We need Chris,” Manny interjects, keeping his hand on my shoulder. “There’s an enormous amount of loyalty to him in the militias, and he’s a damned good friend of mine.”
“The answer is no,” Rivera says.
“You can’t sentence him to death!” I yell.
I am furious. Once again, Rivera is denying us help when we need it most.
“We are all at risk,” he answers gravely. “This is a war.”
“We’re fighters. We can’t just give up.”
“I am preserving the men we have left.”
“You’re hiding! We have to go after those trucks!”
“We will not.” Rivera slams his cigar on the table, color bleeding into his cheeks. “We will regroup and pull back.”
Pull back? God, is he insane?
“But we pushed them out!” I counter. “Omega is on the defensive. We’ve got the initiative, and we should keep pressing.”
“Our mission is done.” Rivera folds the biggest map. “This discussion is over.”
“I won’t leave him to die,” I say, placing my fists on the table.
“He’s probably already dead.”
I press my lips together, burning with cold anger.
“You don’t want to do this,” I warn quietly.
Vera leans forward, frowning. Angela is frozen.
“It’s done,” Rivera answers.
There is no regret in his voice.
I say nothing. I glare at him, and as he continues folding the maps, I turn around and look at Manny. His expression is difficult to read – then again, my eyes are full of tears, so it’s hard to see straight. I push my way through the crowd inside the restaurant – all of them, and me - full of resentment, disappointment and frustration. When I step outside, the cold air is sharp against my cheeks.
I inhale slowly.
Keep it together. Don’t let them see you cry.
So I don’t.
The old Jack in the Box that we’ve been using as a medical center is packed. Soldiers are crammed into every square inch of space, and the medical staff is working overtime. The building stinks of blood and sweat and pain. I sit on the curb outside the front door, listening to the moans and tortured screams of injured men.
It’s horrible. I want to run away and be free of it, but there is nowhere to go.
“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”
I raise my head slightly. Uriah is exiting the building. His hand has been bandaged and his wounds have been cleaned. He looks better.
“Sorry for what?” I say quietly.
“For what happened to Chris. And Jeff.” He swallows. “And Max.”
“What happened to Max is your fault,” I say simply.
“I didn’t leave him behind on purpose,” he answers.
“You ran away.” I stand up. “You abandoned him. All of us.”
“I was doing what I had to do to stay alive,” he counters.
“This isn’t about individual survival, Uriah,” I say. “This is about keeping the team alive. We’re all a part of the team. Or did you miss one of the three million times Chris pointed this out to us?”
“It was a mistake,” Uriah replies, his jaw tight. Dark eyes flashing. “I said I was sorry, and I’m not going to apologize again.”
“Good. Don’t.”
He sighs heavily.
“Look, Cassidy-”
“-That’s Lieutenant Hart to you,” I snap. “Go get some rest, soldier. You need it.” I shove my hands in my pockets and begin to walk away. Uriah catches my shoulder. I push his hand off and turn around, dangerously close to doing something violent. Tears still burn at the edges of my vision, blurring the world.
“I know this is difficult for you,” Uriah says, grabbing my shoulders. “I’ve watched friends die, too. I understand.”
I don’t move.
“Are you going to let Rivera get away with this?” he whispers.
I raise my chin.
“He’s not getting away with anything,” I answer.
I take a step back, giving him a warning look. I size him up. He’s a good six feet, black wavy hair, olive complexion. A strong soldier and a capable sniper. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he did just make a mistake in the heat of the battle.
Or maybe not.
But he has a point: Am I going to let Rivera get away with leaving Chris?
No.
“Are Sophia and Derek okay?” I ask.
“They’re fine,” Uriah replies. “Minor injuries. Nothing compared to what happened to you…” He trails off, sadness in his voice.
I don’t want to hear anymore.
“Meet me at D2 at oh-eight-hundred,” I state. “Don’t be late.”
He looks curious. D2 is what we’ve been calling the empty coffee shop at the edge of the rest area. The D stands for Dugout, which was what we used to call the lounge area back at Sector 20, the National Guard Base in Fresno.
He nods. I walk away.
Uriah is right. I’m not going to let Rivera get away with this.
D2 was a nice place, once. The coffee bar is now cracked, patched with spare plywood. Chairs and tables are makeshift or broken. The soldiers that are gathered inside the small building are standing or sitting cross-legged on the floor. There are more here than I expected. Familiar faces. Uriah. Vera. Sophia. Derek. Manny.
Unfamiliar faces, too. New men and women. About thirty in all.
I’m standing on the other side of the bar.
It’s dark, cold. A gas lantern glows orange against the far wall.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, steadying my voice. Surprisingly, I am not nervous. I am hollow, except for the fiery coals of anger and frustration burning inside of me. Talking to a group of thirty does not scare me: losing Chris scares me much more than this. “You may have heard rumors about why I called this meeting.” I clear my throat, glance at Manny, and continue. He dips his head slowly, assuring me that I’m doing fine.
“As you know, Commander Young went MIA yesterday,” I continue. “According to intelligence reports, he is being taken, along with other militia officers, in Omega trucks. Those trucks are
heading south on the interstate. South is where Omega is strongest. The epicenter of their western front is based in Los Angeles.”
I pause before continuing.
“Our Commander and several other officers are prisoners of war,” I state. “You all know how Omega operates. They capture, interrogate and kill. Colonel Rivera has refused my request to send a rescue unit to stop the trucks and bring them home.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Derek says sharply. He is sitting near Sophia, who is regarding the entire situation with a solemn expression. She has hardly spoken to me since she’s returned from the battlefield.
“Because he’s a Colonel,” Manny drawls. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: politics. It’s all about the politics.”
“What politics?” Derek demands. “This is a battlefield.”
“He’s trying to save his own skin and his own men,” Manny shrugs. “If the militias fall by the wayside while he does so, it’s no skin off his nose.”
“But it is,” I interrupt. “He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
I am surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth.
Why should I cut Colonel Rivera any slack?
“Look, I didn’t call you here so you could argue,” I say. “I called you here to ask you a question. I want to bring those men back. Chris Young is the best leader the militia forces have ever had and ever will have. I’m asking you to volunteer to join my rescue unit.” I take a deep breath before going on. “I have received no authorization from the Colonel and we can expect no support from the Guard. It’s dangerous. The chances of all of us coming back alive are slim. But I believe it’s worth the risk. We all swore an oath to leave no fighter behind, and I want to uphold that promise.”
I look around at the faces in the room. Battle-tested, hardened individuals.
“Who’s with me?” I ask.
Manny leans lazily against the wall, raising his hand. I nod at him, holding his gaze in silent thanks.
Uriah lifts his hand, along with Derek. To my shock, Vera raises her hand, as well. The rest of the soldiers don’t look so certain. Silence fills the room, and I realize that I need to step up my game.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, wiping my hands on my jacket. My palms are sweaty. Apparently I am nervous. “This is a volunteer mission. Nobody is making you go. Colonel Rivera is pulling our forces out of the Chokepoint tomorrow morning. We’ll be back in Fresno by nightfall. If that’s what you want to do, go for it. If you’re loyal to Chris and the militia and everything that he’s fought for, stay here. Help him and the other officers. We need Chris. He’s one of the biggest reasons we’ve had so much success as a military force.”
“How do we know Chris isn’t a traitor, too?” Sophia replies.
I stare at her. Her hands are curled into fists on her knees. A tight, resentful expression lights her dark features.
“What are you saying?” I grit.
“Don’t you think it’s convenient that at the exact same time that a chunk of our militia betrayed us, Chris conveniently went missing?” she accuses. There is no sympathy in her eyes. Only pure, boiling anger. “Who’s to say that he didn’t orchestrate the entire thing?”
“And I guess he orchestrated Jeff’s death, too,” I snap. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Sophia replies coldly. “It doesn’t add up.”
“Chris Young would die before he betrayed us,” Uriah says, turning his dark gaze on Sophia. “You’re a fool to think otherwise.”
“There is no one more loyal to the militias than Commander Young,” Vera agrees. She glances at me. “Cassidy is right. We need him.”
I shake myself. This is a new twist:
Sophia is attacking and Vera is defending me.
What is happening to my world?
“I’m in,” a young man says. I remember him. Andrew. Tall and lean, dark hair and a great shot with a rifle. He has always been dependable on the battlefield. I nod, thankful for his support. More than half of the soldiers in the room raise their hands. That’s twenty-five.
“This will be considered desertion, you know,” Manny interjects. “Going against Rivera’s orders…pulling back to track those trucks while he takes the National Guard back to Fresno. He’s liable to throw quite a fit.”
“We’re here on a volunteer basis,” I say. “We’ll do what we want.”
“There will be consequences when we return,” Vera points out.
“We’ll deal with them.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Sophia presses. “It’s not worth any more people dying to go after one man.”
I swallow a slew of stinging retorts and steady my emotions.
I will deal with my anger at Sophia later.
“This is a war,” I say, echoing Colonel Rivera. “People die.”
“How are we going to assemble a rescue team without Rivera finding out?” Uriah asks. His gaze is deep, intense. It makes me a little uncomfortable. “He’ll go ballistic if he finds out what we’re planning.”
“He won’t find out.” I smile slightly. “Our convoy is massive. We’ll pull out of line, let the others pass, then turn around and head up the interstate.”
“We can’t just drive into Los Angeles like a bunch of tourists,” Derek says.
“We won’t.” I glance at Manny. “Manny’s got connections.”
“I will scout ahead,” he replies, illustrating a plane in flight with his hands. “It’s elementary, really. The fat cats like Rivera head back to Fresno, I go ahead and meet you at a rendezvous point with friendly militia Underground operatives, and you meet me there. Simple, easy and effective.” He winks.
“What will we do when we get to the rendezvous point?” Vera asks.
“Manny will arrange transportation to get us into Los Angeles,” I say.
“What kind of transportation? If we have vehicles, why not just take those all the way into the city?”
“Because the city is infested with Omega forces,” Derek replies. “We won’t be able to get close enough without being detected.” He looks at me. “Right?”
“Correct,” I agree. “And the Underground operatives will have information we’ll need to find Chris.”
“I thought you were going to track trucks,” Sophia snorts.
“We are.” I give her a stern, warning look. “But remember that those trucks are long gone now, probably already back in Los Angeles. The Underground will know where they would take POWs like Chris.”
“Like Chris?”
“High level officers.”
I clasp my hands behind my back.
“So,” I say, resolved. “We have a plan of action and we have volunteers. All we need is a Commander. I say we take a vote.”
Manny laughs.
“It’ll be a landslide,” he chuckles. “My vote rests on you, my girl.”
“So does mine,” Uriah says.
“Me too,” Derek shrugs.
“But…I’m not a field commander,” I say, shocked.
Yes, I am organizing a rescue unit to save Chris, but I am not a commander. Not like him. I’m a Lieutenant. A sniper. I was planning on someone else being in charge.
“You have the battlefield experience we need,” Uriah points out. “Besides, we trust you. You’ve been leading the militias as long as Chris has. And if Chris trusts you, I do, too.”
He holds my gaze for a few moments, turning to the others.
“Does anyone here disagree?” he asks.
Silence.
Everyone in the room slowly raises their hands. Manny smiles with satisfaction, almost smug. I lick my lips, fear creeping into my heart.
What have I gotten myself into?
I am no longer a Lieutenant. I am a Commander.
I am in charge. And I’m scared.
Chapter Three
As a child, I spent most of my time alone. I was my own best friend. My daily activities
consisted of homework, chores and pretending that I was widely loved and adored by all. And by all I mean the collection of toys and stuffed animals I kept in my room. I played with wooden swords and dressed my dolls as commando operatives. I read books about the lives of famous world leaders. People like Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte and George Washington. I enjoyed history. I liked imagining myself as someone important. Why?
I suppose it was because I was a nobody, and I wanted to feel accepted.
Now, as the Commander of a paramilitary rescue unit headed into Los Angeles, I feel more than acceptance. I feel raw fear. I am not afraid that I will die. No. The possibility of death is something I accepted long ago.
I am afraid that I will fail my mission…and fail Chris. Once upon a time Chris took control of a militia group called the Free Army to rescue me from an Omega slave labor camp. That group is now called the Freedom Fighters, and I am taking them into the heart of Omega’s stronghold to save Chris’s life.
I don’t think I’m ready.
But here I am.
I am sitting in a Humvee. Uriah is in the driver’s seat and I am in the passenger side. Despite my anger that he abandoned Max on the battlefield, I must admit that I’ve appreciated his support. He really does seem sorry. People panic in battle. They make bad decisions. And who am I to hold a grudge? I’ve certainly made plenty of my own mistakes since the collapse.
Vera is in another vehicle with Derek, and Manny…well, he’s with his biplane, getting ready to scout ahead and meet us at the rendezvous point in the Tehachapi Mountains. The National Guard convoy is rolling out of Headquarters, a massive movement of trucks and vehicles heading north. It’s surreal to watch.
We came. We fought. We won.
For now.
“They’ll be back,” Uriah mutters.
“Who?” I ask.
“Omega.” He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Don’t you find it a little hard to believe that they would pull back completely and just let us retreat? They’ve got a five million-man army. Let’s be realistic.”
I fold my hands in my lap. The Humvee rumbles to life. Soldiers and officers outside shout orders. Troops are being loaded into transport trucks.